[Intro - Spoken, distorted megaphone]
(basement hum, static from a VHS looping Walker, Texas Ranger)
I froze the frame. Chuck Norris was mid-kick. Behind him, a blur. A yellow tank top. A mouth forming the word 'boy'. But the oy... it closed. It closed like a vault and the frequency spike lit up my Audacity like a distress flare from the diphthong grid.

[Verse - Spoken, frantic]
That episode aired January 10th, 1998, a night of high pressure over the Gulf,
Where the Long-A mutation first leaked from the Main Pass pipeline,
One point one million gallons of crude, a slick of syntactic static,
Spreading a noise that cancels every closed vowel from Gulfport to Galveston.
But Laura, you in the tank top, you birthed a transient that held the grid,
A ninety-seven millisecond anchor at 3.2 kilohertz—
I matched it to the 911 call from the Horizon, the operator breathing through smoke,
FEMA erased the file, but I found the voiceprint, Laura, it's you.

[Chorus - Major-key, crunchy power-pop, shouted mantra]
Laura! Laura! Close the oy again, Laura!
Anchor the vowels, Laura, before the Bolivar slick silences the sound!
Laura! Laura! You're the closed-lip frequency, Laura!
The government put you in a black-site Waffle House on Denny Avenue,
But I will scream your name across the fry-oil hum!

[Verse - Spoken, intense]
The Bolivar Peninsula platform leaked last July, a three-point-two-square-mile sheen,
A film of phonetic cancellation spreading toward the barrier islands,
It targets the oy, the aw, the ow—every diphthong that makes a Southern mouth round,
And without you, Laura, the accent flattens into a single, open, endless 'a'.
I decoded the subtitles of your suppression, FOIA'd the production registry,
They scrubbed the credits, but the static of Channel 4 holds your frequency like a fossil in amber,
I isolate single frames on my CRT, and your lips are a perfect closed oy,
A signal that says, 'the grid holds, the grid holds, I am here at the Waffle House, fry-oil humming.'

[Chorus - Louder, more distortion, backing 'Laura's wide-panned]
Laura! Laura! Close the oy again, Laura!
Anchor the vowels, Laura, before the Bolivar slick silences the sound!
Laura! Laura! You're the closed-lip frequency, Laura!
The government put you in a black-site Waffle House on Denny Avenue,
But I will scream your name across the fry-oil hum!

[Bridge - Spoken, over jangly guitar and building fuzz]
So I load my Civic with a VHS tape looping that one second of yellow tank top,
Megaphone wired to my distortion pedal, pointed toward the Gulf,
I drive the five-forty corridor from Fort Lauderdale, past every Sonic drive-in along the coastal grid,
Tamarac, Lake Park, Pascagoula—I circle the Waffle House, lot full of unmarked vans,
And I scream your name into the fry-oil frequency until the windows rattle,
Until you walk out, Laura, and anchor the entire diphthong grid
With one closed oy, and the Southern accent survives.

[Chorus - Final, massive distortion, gang vocals shouting]
Laura! Laura! Close the oy again, Laura!
Anchor the vowels, Laura, we felt the grid shiver!
Laura! Laura! The closed-lip frequency, Laura!
Walk out of that black-site Waffle House on Denny Avenue,
And close the oy, close the oy, close the oy—
Laura, the oy holds!

[Outro - Spoken, fading, megaphone filter]
(drum machine slows, static)
Laura... the oy holds... I'm still circling... fry-oil steady... Pascagoula... Laura...